


Watch (With Glittering Eyes) the Whole World Around You

by rei_c



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Magical Lydia Martin, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Orgy, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 10:01:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16038173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: Stiles will never give up, no matter how much his pack would prefer him to stay safe, with them, in Beacon Hills.or,When the world changes, the Hales are in Seattle negotiating a new treaty. Stiles has no guarantee they're still alive -- is starting to believe there's no possible way they could still be alive -- but he's going to bring them back to Beacon Hills one way or another.





	Watch (With Glittering Eyes) the Whole World Around You

**Author's Note:**

> “And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.”  
> ― Roald Dahl

Stiles takes his foot off the gas and lets the Jeep roll to a slow, creaking halt. He gets out, stands there, breathes in the air and stretches as he looks toward what used to be Portland. It's all glass and stone and gold. Not a surprise but still disappointing.

Stiles cups his hands, spits into them and then blows quick and sharp over his saliva, once, twice, three times, and a fourth, before the spit starts to shimmer green and float.

"Made it to Portland," he says. "Gonna keep going north, should get to Seattle in a few more days if I keep up this pace. I'll be in touch." He pauses, adds, "Message me back if you get a chance, Lyds. It's quiet out here and you know how I am about the quiet."

Stiles tries to remember if there's anything else the pack needs to know but he can't think of anything so, once his saliva's finished shaping itself into a shimmering green bird, he tells the message to fly straight to Lydia. The bird leaves, wings beating to gain height as it heads south. Stiles watches it soar higher and take the shape of a bird of prey, an eagle of some kind, he thinks, with fierce talons and a sharp, hooked beak. 

The third message he sent, ten days ago, was a brilliant songbird whose breast shone jade in the sun. He doesn't know if anyone heard that message. He hasn't heard from Lydia in eight days.

\--

Stiles consults his map and plots out a drive up to Seattle that should take about five days, clocking in at just under two hundred miles. He slides back in the driver's seat and starts heading north. The Jeep groans with every mile and so does Stiles, his magic keeping the wheels spinning and the mechanics going, a light shade of green lingering under the blue paint and emanating out from the engine. He goes slow and drinks a liter of water every hour he powers the Jeep; he stops for the night at six and falls asleep before sunset twists over the sky, burning red like fire.

He tracks the Columbia north, driving to the west of it. Stiles sticks to country roads where the asphalt has deteriorated back into gravel, rather than the interstates where the cement's reverted to quicklime, leaking off fumes and the kind of sticky heat that clings to skin and hair. It gives him a better idea of the terrain, too, seeing the woods and the shadows darting inside of them, the farmland gone to wild growth, the rivers and creeks that glitter too invitingly. Most of the cities he gets close to on his first day after Portland -- Warren and McNulty and St. Helens and Columbia City -- shine blindingly, turned into masses of metal, twisted spikes of silver and gold where houses used to be, glass window-fronts of businesses glinting and gleaming in the sun and stretching out over the road at parts. 

Stiles crosses the Columbia outside of Rainier, heart sinking as he sees that this area, on both sides of the river, is much the same: no sign of life, the town torn into piles of pyrite-threaded stone and agate, heat shimmers stretching upwards into the sky. Last time Stiles came through, all these places were still mostly intact. Now there's nothing left.

\--

The next day, Stiles gets on the road shortly after sunrise, drinks a liter of water and chews half-heartedly on some granola before switching over to gum. He stops in Galvin to patch up a tire, passes the afternoon humming Green Day and Misfits songs to himself -- what he can remember of them, anyway -- and gets to the Chehalis River in good time. Stiles pulls his boots on, jumps out and looks across to Centralia and Fords Prairie. The light he sees in the distance must be the sun reflecting off of broken-topped clumps of moonstone spiralling up from the lime pools of I-5. 

"Good thing we avoided the highway, huh," he tells his Jeep, patting the hood and listening as the engine clicks, cooling down. He eats the last of his jerky, spikes this hour's water with a packet of herbs and spices, his version of Go-Juice, looks up at the sun and calculates how much daylight he has left and how far he has to go. 

Grand Mound is probably in much the same state as Centralia, which means he'll need to find another way around. Stiles has three options: go west past Oakville and approach Seattle through the Olympic National Forest; go back down to Napavine and circle back north on 165 past Mt. Rainier; or take parts of both choices and cross the river past Oakville and slide back east between Grand Mound and Olympia, probably through Maytown, to catch 165. 

No option is good; they'll all take him through forests, too much forest to take on in one day, sunrise to sunset, which means he'd have to camp in the trees and sacrifice sleep to safety. He'd probably be fine but he can't risk it when the pack expects him back, especially when they aren't returning his messages. This whole trip has been one clusterfuck after another and Stiles has grown up enough to decide against taking stupid chances, no matter the reward, especially when everything's aligned against him. 

He spits in his hands, blows over the saliva, and tells the floating mass of magic, "Made it to Centralia. I'm turning back around; should take me about three weeks to get home. If you don't hear from me for a few days, don't worry; I've gone into conservation mode. I'll send another message when I'm outside Portland." He pauses, takes a breath, adds, "Scott, I haven't heard back from Lydia. I -- I hope she's okay. Tell the kids to send up a flare if I need to hightail my ass back to Beacon Hills. I'll be able to feel it." 

He throws his hands in the air, saliva floating, spinning, whizzing through shapes and forms until it settles on something that Stiles thinks might be a vulture: bald head, black feathers, neck frill, wingspan longer than Stiles is tall. Stiles tells this message to go straight to Scott, not Lydia, and the vulture flies south with a beehive-buzz accompanying every beat of its wings, the sound lingering even once the bird is out of sight. 

Scott won't be able to reply but at least he'll get the message. Stiles hopes that Lydia's all right. He hopes that the kids won't need to flare him. He hopes he's not making a mistake, turning back before he reaches Seattle, even Tacoma or Olympia. 

He lets out a breath, pats the Jeep, and says, "All right, Roscoe. Let's head back south." 

\--

Napavine's gone and so is Winlock; Stiles is disappointed but not surprised, not after what he's seen the past couple days, though he'd assumed Rainier was caught up with Longview and Warren with St. Helens. With the knowledge that things are spreading to the smaller towns and larger villages now, Stiles ransacks every store, clinic, and school he comes across. 

The Jeep gets packed tighter and tighter, magic expanding the space and helping keep Roscoe moving under the weight Stiles keeps piling in: clothes and books and medicine and food. The little magics don't take much from Stiles -- the messages, the water purification cantrip, the casting of an alert ward when he beds down for the night -- but keeping the Jeep moving, especially in this condition, is a big magic, not a little magic, and it's as exhausting as dealing with the roads and the towns and the woods. 

Stiles' pace slows down now that he knows he's going home; he doesn't need to push himself, doesn't need to ration as carefully, can afford to stop when the sun's barely moved past high noon instead of going until the bottom edges start flirting with the horizon. He takes advantage of the opportunity, sleeping twelve, fourteen hours at a time, waking up well after sunrise and falling asleep far before sunset.

It takes him three days to get back down to Castle Rock -- a portion of the trip he did in one day going north -- and cross I-5 on Old Pacific Highway. He loots a couple RV parks for supplies and then takes a break, parks on a bridge crossing the Toutle River's north fork and gets out of the cramped Jeep to look down at the river. It gleams and glimmers in the sun, crystalline shine to the slow-moving water, and the places where it touches the shore beckon seductively, the echoes of an imagined lapping in Stiles' ear, the dirt and mud and grass turned brilliant tourmaline and emerald. It's beautiful. It always is. 

Stiles looks east to Mt. St. Helens, looks south to Longview. The thought of driving sends ripples of weariness through Stiles' bones but he can't spend the night on a bridge and he's not keen on sleeping this close to a city, either. With a sigh, Stiles gets back behind the wheel, gets Roscoe going with a click of his tongue and a wave of green magic radiating from his hands, and keeps moving. 

He makes it ten miles down the road before he gives up. He parks right in the middle of the road, the haze and stench of I-5 to his east and the Cowlitz River to his west. Stiles eats two protein balls, drinks a liter of water, and falls asleep to the ache of continual magic-use throbbing in his bones. 

\--

He went west around Portland last time. This time he goes east -- way east, crossing the Columbia at the Bridge of the Gods and following the river's curves on I-84. He has to patch the tires so many times, driving over the quicklime and random patches of moonstone and clear quartz, that by the time he gets to Hood River, the tires shine a brighter green than the engine. Still, it's clear that no one else has done what he has by the sheer amount of supplies he's able to scavenge and he pushes his way towards the line where the forest around Mt. Hood starts to change into canyons. 

The small villages -- Friend and Kingsley and Boyd -- are unchanged, empty but unchanged, so Stiles spends one entire day in an abandoned farmhouse, lounging on a floral-patterned couch and taking a real shower even though the water's cold and runs pink with rust from the pipes. The stove's gas-powered so Stiles heats up two cans of franks-and-beans he swiped from the RV park and forces down hot food, real food, man-made and chock full of chemicals and preservatives, on the front porch swing, watching sunset turn the sky pink, then red, then purple. When the sun disappears and the sky starts to turn the dark blue presaging the black of night, he goes inside and tucks himself into someone else's bed, slight blanket of dust on top of the quilt making him sneeze as he sets the alert ward at the property line, covering the house and Jeep both. 

He dreams of Lydia, lips parted wide in a laugh, eyes closed, neck bare and on display as she throws her head back and her hair frizzes its way out of its crown braid. 

\--

In the morning, he steals a pull-behind trailer. He redistributes the supplies, eats a quick breakfast of canned chicken noodle soup, and sighs as he gets in the driver's seat.

\--

"I hit Klamath Falls today," Stiles says, speaking into his hands. "Sorry I didn't message from Portland but I took the long 'way round. I'm hauling back a goldmine of random crap which means I need Roscoe as a Jeep. I thought I'd be able to ride back once I hit the border but it looks like I'll be driving. The tires are gone to shit; I hope we still have extras but I'm bringing back a couple spare, too, so I'll be ready for the next run. I still haven't heard from Lydia but there hasn't been a flare, either, so I hope things are okay. Call if you need me; I should be able to hear it from here." 

This time the magic curls into a whirling mass of green, too thick to see it switch from form to form. Even once it settles, Stiles can barely tell what it's decided on, it shoots off south so fast. He hears its cry, a shrieking noise that he remembers from movies. 

"You have _got_ to be fucking with me," he mutters, leaning against Roscoe as he sips his water. "A pterodactyl, seriously? Hey, you think if we changed you, you'd turn into a T-Rex?" Roscoe doesn't reply. It never does. The thought amuses Stiles, though, and keeps him entertained for the rest of the day, driving down to Henley, patching the pull-behind's tires and axles, combing through the houses and sheds and schools for anything that looks useful and a few luxury items that the kids might like. 

By the time he's done pillaging, it's already getting dark. Stiles traces a rune for time-telling on the ground with the toe of his boot; it's far earlier than he would have guessed, judging by the sky. A rumble of thunder catches his ear, coming from the west, and Stiles decides to stay in Henley rather than try and outrun the storm. 

He keeps his fingers crossed that the storm goes north but by the time he's found a barn and cleared it out enough to fit both the Jeep and trailer inside, the wind's blowing right at him. He curses under his breath and moves fast to set a circle of salt and mountain ash around the barn, then two more, so he has three lines of protection between him and the storm. 

Stiles stretches out as best he can in the Jeep, barn doors closed and keeping in the smell of stale hay and rusted machinery. Outside, the wind howls and the storm rages. He shuts his eyes, tries to ignore the faint noise of voices that come with every drop of rain, turning from a quiet chorus as the storm begins to a raging cacophony as it intensifies and batters the structure Stiles is parked in. 

He hears his mother's voice, his father's as well, has been able to pick those out of the chaos of storms since the beginning. The rest of the voices fade into a sheer wall of noise that rings in Stiles' ears long after he's charmed himself to sleep. 

\--

The world is silent when Stiles finally wakes up. He opens the doors, looks outside, and sighs. The space inside his three rings of protection hasn't changed, but everything outside of them has. The houses shine golden in the sun where the glass doesn't reflect the light and the road's been pummelled back into gravel and ground obsidian, grass glinting emerald where drops from the rainstorm and morning dew sit. 

Stiles hooks the trailer up and gets back on the road well before the sun hits its peak, crossing into California around noon. Stiles wants to be home, is desperate to be home, now, so he pushes himself, keeps the Jeep and the trailer running far past sundown and well into the night. He's making pretty good time, hasn't had to stop to reapply any magic to the tires since the roads here are still mostly roads, only small patches of quicklime or gravel every so often, and he drinks his third Go-Juice of the day at midnight, intent on reaching Beacon Hills. 

Except then he does, right when the sky's starting to grow light with dawn, and all he can do is stare. 

Beacon Hills sparkles in the sun, the air above the taller buildings wavy with heat. Everything is glass, gold and silver, jasper and citrine and sardonyx, slate and shale and stone. It doesn't look like there's anything else left. 

Stiles stumbles out of the Jeep, pats Roscoe's hood, says, "I won't take long," and walks into town. He knows that his pack survived, at least one person, anyway, because none of his messengers have come back, and if they couldn't go to Lydia or Scott, they'd find the next available person and wait for either their message's recipient or Stiles. He still feels the pack bonds, too -- faint tugs in his chest, not enough to distract him from his mission but present enough to remind him he's not alone. None of them have broken which means everyone is fine. Their home might be gone, but everyone is fine.

\--

Back when this all started, the pack decided to make their base of operations the area between the school and the sheriff's station; it's sixteen square blocks of houses, community spaces, and large buildings, a strategic choice rather than anything sentimental, and big enough for the pack and the civilians they'd managed to save. They'd ringed the area in a circle of salt, mountain ash, and goofer dust so thick that sometimes Stiles has trouble crossing it and made a rule that no one was to step past that ring unless they had the permission of both the alpha and primary emissary. Everyone's followed that rule religiously and Stiles' protection circles back in Henley held through the storm even though they weren't half as strong, so Stiles has hope that their territory held when the rest of the city changed. 

None of that territory is visible through the blinding glare of the rest of the city, seeing as those sixteen square blocks are right in the middle of Beacon Hills, so Stiles has to walk down streets of gravel and limestone, past houses of silver and businesses of gold, past his reflection in splintered shards of glass. The gems change from garnet and carnelian and diamond to emerald and jade and amazonite as he moves. He casts no shadow on the ground. 

When he gets to the intersection where he'll need to turn in order to lay eyes on the territory, Stiles pauses, holds his breath and closes his eyes. Half of him wants to know, the other half doesn't, and he stands there long enough to start wavering on his feet, exhaustion and fear battling inside him. He moves, takes a couple steps and turns, lets out his breath. Finally, Stiles mutters, "Okay, just," and opens his eyes. He sways, again, as sudden and vicious relief chokes him. 

The territory holds. 

Stiles staggers forward, reaches the line of protection, and drops to one knee. He grazes the wards, pressing his fingertips against the force of them, breathing them in and getting a sense of their strength. Still firm, no holes or weakness or stretched-thin patches. The circle rings strong and true and, a moment later, chimes out above the city in a clanging chorus of bells that echo against the glass and stone, sink into the silver, send ripples down the golden walls of houses. 

Stiles waits, listens, and grins when the noise of footsteps reaches his ears, laughs in exhausted delight when Scott, Liam, and Theo come into view. Stiles sits back on his heels, then his ass as his muscles give. The sheer joy inside of him sends his vision spinning along with his head. 

"Jesus," Scott says, coming right up to the ward line and then rocking back. "Is it -- no one's crossed the line. Is it safe?" 

Stiles reaches down deep, drowns his pack bonds to Scott, Liam, and Theo in enough magic to turn them forest green and nods when he sees the faintest aura of his magic reflected around their physical bodies. "Yeah," he says. "Just stick together." 

Scott dives across the line, hauls Stiles up and into a hug that's so tight, Stiles can hear his ribs creak. "What'd you do, drive all night?" 

"Yup," Stiles says, and isn't even upset at the swat to the back of his head. He waits for Scott to let him go, accepts Liam's hug and Theo's scenting without complaint, and says, "We should go grab Roscoe. I brought so much stuff back with me and I'd like to get it all inside the wards before I faceplant and sleep for a solid week." 

Scott laughs, wraps an arm around Stiles' waist that feels more like the comfort of companionship than the only thing keeping Stiles upright that it really is, and starts heading toward the city's edge. Liam and Theo break into a jog, going ahead of them, and Stiles watches with only a touch of envy at the easy lope they both fall into. He might sleep for longer than a week, actually. Everything hurts even with Scott surreptitiously pulling his pain. "Only you would go on a scouting mission and come back with more shit than we know what to do with." 

"Don't judge," Stiles says. "You'll be excited to see what I was able to scavenge this time." 

"But you didn't make it to Seattle," Scott says, quietly, half a question. Stiles looks at him and Scott says, "We got your messages. I don't know how they -- we had a storm come through five days after you left. That's when everything outside the wards changed. Lydia passed out; she has a row of birds sitting on her headboard, waiting for her to wake up." 

Stiles thinks back to the storm he slept through in Henley, thinks back to every storm he's survived through, and quietly tells Scott, "We're lucky she's just unconscious." 

Scott looks at him, sharp and narrow-eyed, but doesn't ask. He never asks. "Regardless, I'm glad you thought to start sending them to me. How far north did you get?" 

"Got within sight of Olympia and turned around," Stiles says. "I didn't have the energy to force it. Next time I might head up through reservation land instead of following I-5. If I make a wide circle around the major cities and approach from the northeast, I should be able to get right to the city border." 

Scott looks like he's about to reply but then Liam yells, "Holy fucking shit, Stilinski!" and Stiles grins. 

"Yeah," Stiles says, when Scott glances at him and speeds up their pace a little. "Like I said, I brought back _so much stuff_." 

\--

Stiles uses the last of his magic to power Roscoe through Beacon Hills and right to the edge of their territory. The wards won't let the Jeep and the trailer through, not as saturated with magic as they are, so Stiles takes all the spells back -- tires and engine and axles, all of it -- shuddering as the magic returns to him, and lets the wolves push the two vehicles over the ward-line. He's getting ready to light everything back up with just enough magic to get to the school when Scott elbows him, says, "We can handle it. Mason'll want to go through everything you brought back, anyway. Go get some rest." 

It's testament to how exhausted he is that Stiles doesn't even entertain the thought of arguing. He pushes lightly at Theo, says, "I need a piggyback, bitch," and waits for Theo to crouch down a little before jumping on Theo's back.

"Asshole," Theo mutters, but he pats Stiles' leg, makes sure to walk carefully, and tilts his head to the side when Stiles buries his face in Theo's neck, giving Stiles more room with a light chuff of approval. "Where'm I taking you?" 

"Lydia," Stiles says. "I'll dissipate the messengers, save myself that magic. Might as well bunk in with her as well. Pack heals with pack, magic heals with magic. It'd do us both good." 

Theo doesn't respond, just keeps moving. His gait is so even and steady that it lulls Stiles into sleep before they get a block down the road. 

\--

Stiles wakes up long enough to touch each of his message-birds, taking back the magic that sustained them. He yawns, presses a kiss to Lydia's cheek and murmurs, "Back now, Lyds. Lemme sleep and then I'll wake you up, promise." His vision's dark, grey with fatigue, but there's enough left in him to see Theo come back into Lydia's room with a couple blankets under one arm, Stiles' pillow under the other, hands carrying a steaming cup of something and a sandwich. 

"Here," Theo says, soft and quiet, as he sets down the food and wrangles the pillow under Stiles' head, covers him in both the blankets. He helps Stiles eat, holding the sandwich so all Stiles has to do is bite and chew and swallow, then carefully, patiently pours tea down Stiles' throat. "Get some rest, you jerk," he says, as Stiles collapses back down, relaxing into the comfort of Lydia's mattress and his own bedding with a sigh. 

"'M not a jerk," Stiles mutters, " _you_ are." Theo snorts, runs a hand through Stiles' hair, and Stiles gives into the weight of his bones and the thrumming of his magic and the feeling of complete safety. Stiles exhales, murmurs, "Good to be back," and falls asleep. 

\--

He dreams of Derek, of the way Derek smiled, four days before everything changed, of the way Derek licked up Stiles' throat, of the way Derek laughed, of the way Derek said, "We'll be _fine_ , Stiles," of the way Peter honked the Camaro's horn and Cora screeched in the backseat and Derek touched Stiles' cheek, of the way he and Scott and Theo stood there and waved the Hales off to Seattle and the initial stages of a treaty with the Cascade Pack. 

He dreams of the glint of light in Derek's eyes, the way his stubble felt against the sensitive skin of Stiles' neck, the way he smelled and the clothes he wore. He dreams of Derek's touch and Derek's teeth and Derek's nose against his own, one last Eskimo kiss for the road. He dreams of Derek -- 

\-- and then he wakes up, dried salt on his cheeks, blood in his mouth, the sick curl of failure rising up his esophagus _again_. 

Next to him, Lydia sleeps on. On her other side, Scott's awake, watching Stiles with red eyes. 

"You can't keep looking," Scott says. "It's killing you, Stiles. Every time you come back, you look worse, and you don't wait long enough between trips to heal up." 

"I have to," Stiles replies. "Until I know, one way or the other." 

Scott exhales, finally nods. "We'll talk later. Go back to sleep," he says. 

Stiles rolls close to Lydia, buries his face in her throat. Scott reaches over Lydia to place a hand on Stiles' hip, draining the last of Stiles' magic-caused aches and pains away. Stiles closes his eyes, reaches for his bond with Lydia, and holds it tight as he sinks into unconsciousness, this time, rather than sleep. Distantly, he hears someone roar, hears a high, yipping screech as well. He doesn't rise up to meet them. Instead, he sinks deeper, and then he's gone. 

\--

He opens his eyes to a black vortex, spinning and howling and full of claws and nails. Lydia's dreams have never been the easiest to navigate but this is something else entirely. He turns in a complete circle, looks up and down, sees only the black. Stiles rolls his eyes, puts his hands around his mouth and calls out, " _Lydia_!" The sound gets twisted up into the void and so when Stiles calls again, he sends her name out along with a tracing line of vibrantly green magic, all the more noticeable in the inescapable darkness. The magic unspools, following Stiles' homing spell, and when it stops, yanks taut, Stiles follows it deeper into the nothingness.

He's not sure how long it takes before he sees the shine of red hair, all he knows is that his magic leads him to Lydia the same way it always has, and that she's relieved to see him. When he gets near enough, she draws him close and hugs him tight, says, "I knew you'd come find me." 

"Always," he says. "Are you ready to wake up?" 

"I want food," she says. "And then a nap. Are you --" and she trails off. 

Stiles leans back enough to look at her, moves so that he can cup her cheek with one hand, thumb tracing the curve of her nose. "I didn't find them," he says, chest aching. "I didn't even make it to Olympia. I'll take a different route next time." 

Lydia studies him, takes in the brittle way he's holding himself. "You should take someone with you," she says, and it's such an old argument that Stiles doesn't even have to respond. She already knows what he's going to say. She presses their foreheads together, noses rubbing, and she tells him, "If you took a wolf, you'd be able to pull strength from the pack. You could get further. And -- Stiles, the older ones, they all know the risk and they think it's worth taking. You survive because of what you are. They know they might not. They know and they're still willing to go with you." 

"I won't sacrifice one of the pack to satisfy my curiosity," Stiles says. "And I think we both know that's all it is at this point. I haven't seen anything alive out there in the past year. At this point, I'm just going in order to bring back their statues." 

"There's a place in the garden for them," Lydia says, "between Satomi and Kira and Malia. And I think they'd rather be here than alone in Seattle." 

Stiles breathes out, closes his eyes. "We've saved room in the garden for three. Not four. Please don't ask this of me, Lydia. If I have to take someone with me, I won't go, and not knowing -- it'll drive me out into the rain sooner rather than later." 

Lydia brushes her lips over Stiles', says, "One way or another, we'll get you to agree with us. Now wake me up, Stiles. I'm hungry." 

He wraps one arm around Lydia's waist, his other hand cupping the delicate curve of her skull, and he pulls her as close as he can, murmurs, "Hold on tight." 

Stiles throws his head back, screams into the void, and rides the coruscating wave of green magic out of the black and back into consciousness. 

\--

They wake up together, sit up in sync, then the magic starts to dissipate and let their minds separate, their synchronicity fading back into the natural split of two minds, two bodies, two souls. Stiles slumps backwards, hits a chest and shifts to the side, looks to see the familiar line of Theo's jaw. He gives, then, knowing he's in safe hands, and curls up tight as his marrow starts to ache with a viciousness he rarely feels. Stiles groans, his breath hitching in pain, and a moment later there's a hand on his ankle. 

"Liam," Theo murmurs, right into Stiles' ear. "His arm's fucking black, Stiles -- what the hell did you do?" 

"Woke me up before he was ready," Lydia says. Her voice is tight, strained, though she moans a little in relief a moment later. Stiles assumes there's someone draining her pain, too, and he would congratulate himself for being right when she says, "Thanks, Scott," if he wasn't still clenching his jaw enough to audibly grind his teeth. "What'd I miss?" 

There's a moment of silence -- Stiles imagines that Scott and Liam and Theo all exchange looks -- then Scott says, "One of Stiles' messenger-birds was a god-damn pterodactyl. Also, the storm that knocked you out kind of -- well, things have changed." 

"Beacon Hills is gone," Liam says. "Outside of the territory wards, it's just fucking -- it changed the way Stiles says everything else has." 

"We'll call a meeting when you're both up and moving," Scott says. "Decide if we should -- decide what to do." 

Stiles knows what his vote's going to be. He's been six hundred miles in an arc around Beacon Hills from Olympia to Boise to the Utah border to Los Angeles. There's nowhere safer than where they are now, surrounded by territory wards strong enough to resist pretty much anything the rest of the world could throw at them. They have gardens and livestock and supplies to last, they have a system of governance and hope for the future and enough magic to keep them safe indefinitely. Leaving would be the height of stupidity. 

"I want food," Lydia says. "Stiles needs more sleep. Once we're both back to what passes for our normal, we'll talk, but until then, nothing, okay? Please? Just -- give us some time." 

"Whatever you need," Scott says. 

Stiles buries his face in Theo's neck, whispers, "Don't let go." 

Theo shakes his head, shifts enough to have Stiles letting out a pained hiss, but keeps holding Stiles, even bends a little and presses his lips to Stiles' hair. "Not a problem," Theo tells him. 

Stiles sleeps. 

\--

Stiles sleeps, and doesn't dream, and then he wakes up, sprawled half over Scott, one arm reaching out to touch Liam, on Scott's other side, and with Theo behind him. There's a heavy weight on Stiles' feet; he looks, sees Mason and Corey twined together, catches a glimpse of Danny behind Theo. He yawns, tries to sit up; Theo holds him tighter, keeps him lying down. 

"Need to piss," Stiles murmurs, elbowing Theo. "Lemme go, asshole." 

"Ugh," Theo replies, but lifts his arm. 

Stiles tries to extricate himself from the pile without waking up anyone else but he's numb from sleeping and he lost more weight than usual on this trip; his knees and elbows are pointier than he remembers, sharper than everyone remembers, it seems. 

"Fucking just -- oh, come on, Stiles," Liam groans, the last one to wake up right as Stiles tries stretching over him and fails miserably, knocking an elbow into Liam's kidney. "I drain your pain and this is the thanks I get?" 

"I just _really_ need to take a leak," Stiles says. "Figured you wouldn't want me doing that in the bed." 

Liam grumps and Mason laughs, a little, while Danny breathes out a plea for quiet. Stiles hightails his way to the bathroom and pulls down the sweatpants someone changed him into, sighing in relief when he starts pissing. He's still going when Theo comes in, stands behind Stiles and faceplants into Stiles' neck, fangs dropping to scratch a line into Stiles' skin. 

"Missed you," Theo says, lisping around his fangs as he puts his hands on Stiles' waist. Claws catch Stiles' skin, dig in enough to feel but not enough to draw blood. "Wanna get you before the others." 

"Greedy," Stiles murmurs, but he doesn't tuck himself back in his sweats once he's done. Instead, he leans back, lets Theo hold him up, and says, "Put the claws away before you even _think_ about touching my dick or I'll kill you." 

Theo snorts, says, "Promises, promises," and jerks Stiles off slow and lazy, sucking bruises into Stiles' neck. 

Stiles comes, eventually, with a low groan, turns his head enough to watch as Theo licks Stiles' come off his hand. "You?" Stiles asks. 

"Nah," Theo says. "Later. You still smell tired." 

"Still _am_ tired," Stiles admits. "I really shouldn't've pushed it with Lydia, not after I drove all night." 

Theo chuckles, helps Stiles get halfway presentable, says, "Oh, look, a new trick: admitting idiocy. Never thought I'd hear that coming from you. What kind of spell is that?" 

Stiles elbows Theo as they walk out of the bathroom. "Be nice to me," he says. "I found a bag of Kit Kats that still looked good and hid them for you." 

"My hero," Theo says, grinning. "Voyaging into the unknown and bringing me back chocolate. I'd feel special except you brought something back for everyone in the pack. You should've heard the noise Lydia made when Mason told her about the books." 

"An entire shelf of Russians," Stiles says, mock-grimacing. "Someone in Bumfuck, Washington, must've been a masochist." Theo opens his mouth and Stiles elbows him again, says, "Don't even start," and takes off, running towards the cafeteria and squawking every time Theo gets close to catching him. 

The two of them burst through the doors, Stiles twitching to avoid Theo's fingers, Theo doing his best to tickle Stiles to within an inch of his life. Stiles evades Theo long enough to circle a table, hide behind Melissa and Chris, and he grins at Theo, standing on the other side of the table behind Natalie and Jordan, then sticks out his tongue. 

"Children," Chris says. "Please." 

Theo subsides -- for now; it's clear that this isn't over but, then again, when is it ever between them -- and Melissa gets up, draws Stiles into a gentle embrace. "Welcome back," she says. There's a question in her greeting and Stiles has to shake his head, most of his good mood deserting him at the admittance of yet another failure. "Well," she says. "We appreciate the supplies, anyway. Where the hell did you find that many drugs?" 

"I looted a couple RV parks and state visitor centers," Stiles says. "You'd be surprised. Also a couple schools. Never underestimate the preparedness of a school nurse in Oregon, I guess? I think next time I might --" 

"Next time?" Jordan asks, interrupting Stiles. "Are you -- please tell me you're not going out again right away, Stiles. You just woke up after sleeping for a solid _two weeks_." 

Two weeks. He can probably attribute three days to Lydia, maybe two to driving that last night of his trip, one day to recuperating from three doses of Go-Juice in twenty-four hours, but that's still over a week straight. The most he's ever slept after a trip was five days. Either Stiles is using more magic or it's taking more out of him to be outside of the wards -- but no, he had the pull-behind trailer spelled up as well, this time, and more weight to carry with all the shit he brought back. He definitely used more than normal, plus the strain of the spell-birds not being able to deliver their messages; they might be small magics but they add up, especially over distance, and he sent most of those on his way north, not coming back down south. 

"Explainable," he finally says. "Nothing I shouldn't have expected, in the end. But I'll know better for next time." 

Scott comes over, carrying a tray piled high with food, and sets it down next to Melissa. He tilts his head at Stiles and Stiles rolls his eyes but does as his alpha requests: he sits, stuffs his face until he thinks he's going to explode, chats with people who stop by the table to welcome him back and thank him for the things he brought with him. Melissa and Natalie eventually head off to the clinic, Melissa pressing a kiss to Stiles' temple as she goes. 

Everyone in the pack comes to scent him and a few of them stroke palms down his arms or over the back of his neck. Chris gets more and more uncomfortable and finally leaves, though Jordan watches everything with a wistful look in his eyes. 

"Our invitation to join the pack is still open," Stiles finally says. "At least, Scott hasn't asked me about rescinding the offer." 

Jordan shakes his head, says, "I know and I appreciate it, but --," and trails off. 

Stiles laughs, says, "Kinda weird. I get it. But if you ever change your mind." 

"Thanks," Jordan says, and gets up, leaning across the table to scritch Stiles' scalp. "Be good, Stiles. Use protection." 

"Never," Stiles says, rolling his eyes, "to both." 

Jordan grimaces, leaves, and Stiles picks at the crumbs on his plate. He finally gives in when Alec and Danny come over and nuzzle him, one on each side. "Okay, okay, I get it," he says, and lets them help him up. They lead him back towards Scott's bedroom and, when he gets there, he sees the entire pack waiting for him. Stiles groans, says, "Be gentle; I just woke up." 

Liam strips him and Scott's the first one to kiss him; Lydia sinks on top of his cock and Corey fills Stiles' mouth as Mason stretches Stiles out and then Theo fucks him slow and careful while Hayden rides his fingers. Stiles closes his eyes after that, gives into the sensation of the pack welcoming him back, reaffirming their bonds to him the best way they know, until they're all a sweaty heap on Scott's bed, reeking of come and satisfaction. 

Stiles stretches, feels the ache of being well-used and well-loved, and, in Scott's arms, with Hayden's hair tickling his belly and Danny tracing circles around the jut of his ankles, he thinks that the only way this could be better is if the Hales were here -- _his_ Hales, Derek and Peter and Cora. 

Someday, he promises himself, for the thousandth time. Someday, one way or another.

\--

Five weeks later, Stiles rolls down Roscoe's window, waves goodbye to Scott and Lydia, and drives north.


End file.
